Aurum
by AnUnstoppableWarrior
Summary: America decides to let his hair grow long, and frets over what some of the others might think of it. One-shot.


**I'm going to say this right now: America + long hair + other Nations = yes please!**

**I guess this also counts as Rusame, with hints of World/America because why not?**

**Also, very little to no plot, just a simple look at some Nation's reactions to America with long hair.**

**Aurum supposedly means 'Gold' in Latin(I know Google isn't known for its outstanding translation skills).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

America is nervous.

He'll admit, and fairly readily too, that he's always prided himself on his exemplary ability to keep a level head during tense or otherwise dangerous situations. And with all the responsibility and crippling self-doubt that being a country gives him, he likes to think he's survived pretty well with his methods of coping, something England and France had taught him when he was younger to deal with the heavy burden that is being the personification of an entire Nation.

But his methods are failing as the clocks ticks down to 5:00pm. It sits on the wall of the small room he's currently seated in and has been the object of his gaze for the last several minutes. The closer the hour hand gets, the more nervous and...unsure he starts to feel, and he hates it. He's good at ignoring pretty much everything if he tries hard enough, but he can't ignore the churning of his stomach nor the tightness in his muscles.

_Everything will be cool_, he tries to assure himself, but he can already see England's disapproving glare and that image bothers him more than it should. Seriously, what's England's problem anyway? America scowls to himself and picks up the magazine on his lap, something meant to distract him from the passage of time but it doesn't work as he finds himself staring at the clock again.

Ugh, dammit!

America slams the magazine shut with way more force than necessary and flings it onto the end table next to him. Not even mindless gossip and news nobody actually cares about can keep his mind at ease for the upcoming meeting with his fellow Nations.

If there's one ray of sunshine during his shit day, however, it'll be France and Canada's reactions. France, he knows, will be downright beside himself with joy, in the same way England will be beside himself in irritation. Canada will have much the same reaction as France will, and truly America thinks the only person who's going to react negatively is England. Though he, Canada, and France will see him first before the others arrive in his country for the start of another conference, he feels confident knowing that most others will either like the surprise or be indifferent, and the latter is something America's banking on. Well—maybe a compliment wouldn't be too much to ask for(as if his ego needs it).

Somewhere in his internal rant a good chunk of time has run away from him, and now he can see the plane landing outside the wall-to-wall window overlooking the runway. The room he's in is reserved for this purpose, where he can greet and see away his guests without the prying eyes or ears of the general public. They do prefer to call each other by their country names, after all.

A light blinks to life above a large door directly in front of him, and with nerves creeping back to the forefront of his mind, America stands and waits. It doesn't take long for voices—England's complaining about the flight in, as he always does, no matter who's Nation he's visiting. France isn't trying very hard to placate him either, choosing the more dangerous route of disagreeing with him by stating that he thought, for once, the trip was much more bearable than in the past.

_Wow, thanks for sticking up for me France,_ America thinks. At least he knows Canada hadn't minded the flight. His sweet brother, always managing to make him feel better without really trying.

They finally come into sight, Canada surprisingly in the lead with England and France bickering behind him. He puts on a bright smile that wavers with nerves as his brother catches sight of him and stops dead in his tracks, mouth falling open in shock, though there's a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. England and France, not paying attention to Canada or their surroundings, run into the poor guy, but it's not enough to faze Canada. It is, however, enough to finally make both England and France look at him, and their reactions are not unlike Canada's. Wide-eyed, England's face drops from shocked to a mix of mild confusion and disapproval while France's entire face lights up in happiness.

"_Oh my, who is this angel in front of me?"_ He breathes in French, and America blushes fiercely as France smiles widely, probably the largest smile America's even seen on the guy.

America plays with the ends of his hair, which rests over his shoulder from the high ponytail its currently fashioned in. His smile is still wavering, but he's pleased with their reaction—two out of three is good enough for him.

"Your—Y-Your hair!" England stutters out, pointing at him. America lets his hair go and he feels it swing down to rest somewhere around his shoulder blades.

"Yeah..." He says, stretching the word out. "I, uh...well—"

"No," France says vehemently, shoving England out of the way to step around a beaming Canada and approach him. When he gets close enough, he drags America into an embrace. "You do not need to explain such beauty." America can feel the smile on France's face as he says, "I knew you boys learned the most important lessons from me."

Yes, America had decided to grow out his hair.

He'd been busy recently and hadn't bothered getting his hair cut. Once or twice, during his more...questioning years, he'd grown it out but never kept the look, mostly because he couldn't just represent the wild youth of the age and had to look respectable to be taken seriously. Not that he'd cared at that time because he'd been high off his _ass_, but that had also meant he'd just sit in a chair and let someone cut his hair and not give a fuck what happened to it.

So when his hair had started getting longer than usual, a group of woman at the gym he likes to frequent had suggested he let it grow out. He'd shrugged and said sure, and now he has long hair.

He can just cut it away, but he kinda likes it. Not that he needs any more attention, but he's not dumb, despite the act he puts on. Especially when in his own country, he notices that heads turn as he walks down the street. Mostly because his people can sense, somewhere deep within them, that they know him from somewhere, or that they've seen him before but can't place where. But also, because he's just that motherfuckin' hot.

And with longer hair?

Everyone he does business with says something. The women at the gym had squealed and crowded him, and at first he'd been embarrassed but if women can have long hair, why can't he, or any man, for that matter? It definitely helps that his body is stuck at 'young adult' and his hair is like golden silk.

Canada expresses his own joy at seeing America with such long hair. Of the two of them, Canada had always been closer to France and France's customs. His outlook on life had molded Canada into the kind young Nation he is today, while England's disastrous attempt at caring for anyone other than himself had brought him up the way he is. Yes, he partially blames England.

Surprisingly, England doesn't stay—not angry, per say, but something like it—for long, and he too compliments America, which just makes his day. Having spent hours on a plane without decent food, America takes them all to a nice restaurant and they spend the night catching up with each other.

* * *

When England wakes up the next morning in one of America's many guest bedrooms, the status of America's hair has temporarily left his mind. He goes about his normal morning routine, glad that he's able to spend a day without worrying about business affairs or the conference itself, as it's poised to begin the following day.

He, France, and Canada are staying in one of America's many houses, as will America's friends once they arrive today. England's not necessarily looking forward to it—Japan he is eager to see again, as he too enjoys the quiet Nation's company. Russia, on the other hand, he is not eager to see again, or really at any time. What America sees in that man is beyond him, and truthfully, what Russia even sees in America is a mystery.

As he heads downstairs to the kitchen, the smell of breakfast and the voices of the two brothers reach him. Despite having left America to live by himself when he'd been a colony, England did enjoy a house full of people, as shocking as that may sound. He did well in the presence of others and while he still enjoys his alone time for reading and peace and quiet, he finds that a house full of good people who make each other laugh is the best thing he can wish for. Staying at France's or Canada's or even his own home during meetings in their respective countries is the closest this wish comes to being fulfilled.

When he reaches the threshold of the kitchen, he stops in the door frame. Canada is seated at the table, feeding his bear some scraps of bacon and eggs. America is standing by the stove, his back to them both. Neither has noticed him.

As he gazes at America's back, he's suddenly reminded that America's hair is long now. Last night it had been easy to forget, as it had been in a ponytail and hidden behind him most of the night, but now it spills around his shoulders and hangs just under his shoulder blades, looking like fine golden silk. He feels his face heat up slightly.

There is a fine line defining Nations' relations to each other. In his and America's case, he had tried to raise the lad and act like an older brother to him, inevitably becoming something of a father figure in the younger America's life. But there is no blood relation between them, not like there is, undeniably, between America and Canada. They even share the same face, a rare occurrence for two separate Nations. He and France, even, had had some kind of brotherly bond when France had been keeping tabs on him when he'd been a wild youth, but since then and now they have done many things brothers would never do together and to each other. It is simply in their nature as Nations to seek each other out, seeing as how there is a limited number of them to begin with.

He feels he would not mind being with America in such a way. He's always held a fondness for the younger Nation, even when they argue he knows that he'll always feel like they have a connection.

But it is so easy to envision that long golden hair splayed across a pillow, fanning out and framing America's blushing face as he smiles sweetly up at him and if he continues this line of thought he's going to have to excuse himself.

Before he can enter the kitchen two hands grab his shoulders and yank him away from it. France spins him round and gives him a knowing smirk, wagging his brows as well. "A little early to be thinking such thoughts, wouldn't you say?" England scowls and shrugs his hands away, crossing his arms as he tries to get distance between them.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

France raises a perfect brow and leans over to peer into the kitchen. England follows his lead and this time America's facing them. When he notices their stares he gives them a wave and a smile. "You guys hungry? We've got pancakes!"

"In a moment," France says, retreating back behind the wall, England following a moment behind. France gives England a knowing look. "Don't take me for a fool, I know that look when I see it."

England growls but doesn't deny it. "Fine, whatever, you can't honestly tell me you've never thought about it."

Wit ha sly smirk, France leans closer to whisper, "Oh I've done more than think about it." Taking advantage of the impact of those words on a stunned England he leans in quickly to give the other a chaste peck on the mouth. He laughs and dances out of the way of England's furious swipe, leaving the man fuming with a beet red face.

France certainly enjoys the rest of his morning. England glares daggers at him all throughout it.

* * *

America sits in that same room at the airport again, however this time he is not nervous. With England's overall approval of his hair, he feels as though confidence has been restored to him. He'd been so prepared for England to scowl and hiss at him for it, since both France and Canada have longer hair and had worried that England might think he'd done this in some way to spite him, as asinine as that sounded. He always kinda felt that while Canada emulated France in many ways, he'd take after England and keep his hair short as well, though over the years he just preferred it out of his face since he used to do a lot of physical labor back then. Of course, a lot of his native people—a majority he'd say—had long hair, but somehow the thought hadn't really crossed his mind until the 1960s through the 1980s to grow his hair out.

This wait is not as torturous as the last one, and the main reason why is because he's been anticipating seeing Russia again since he'd followed through with the long hair. Being Nations, they didn't often see each other; not just him and Russia, but everyone to everyone. One time Hungary had lost a bet with Prussia and had attended a conference with hair dyed every color of the rainbow and then some. Of course she'd pulled it off flawlessly with her incredible amount of self-confidence, but no one had been aware of the change save for her, Prussia, and Austria.

Then there'd been the time that Denmark had also lost a bet and had been forced to wear the most ridiculous and hideous suit in existence. Again, no one had known this was going to happen except the Nordics.

And he and Russia are very busy countries—well, Russia's busy in a responsible way, America just wants to play Call of Duty all day long and loaf about his house in his underwear. And don't even mention to him the time difference between the two of them. There is only a small window of time where both of them are awake, though one of them is getting ready for bed while the other's just waking up. It complicates things.

But America doesn't let it bother him. He and Russia have an understanding, and if it's been working all these years, why change it? America isn't the clingy type, and he can stand with seeing Russia only a few times a year. Being a Nation gives them all, himself included, a screwed up sense of time anyway, as many of them still remembered old wars and skirmishes like they'd happened last week, so really a year isn't a long time for them at all. And given that they had innumerable years ahead of them in terms of life, long distance relationships work out better than any human might expect.

That's part of the reason why he's so excited. Russia's really good at surprising him, especially with gifts of the edible variety, because practically everything from chocolate to hamburgers makes him happy, but Russia is hard to give gifts to. Hopefully he'll be pleasantly surprised and not put off with America's new hair.

He sure hopes so.

With Russia's impending arrival, and then Japan's later on, he's bouncing with so much excitement when the plane finally pulls up to the gate he almost can't contain himself, especially when Russia steps into view.

America has to put effort into remaining still and quiet so that Russia can take in the change. For this reason he'd foregone the ponytail to let his hair hang loosely on and around his shoulders. France had told him he looked nigh irresistible and had gotten maybe a little too grabby before England had called him out on it.

To his credit Russia doesn't stop walking though his steps falter a little when he catches sight of the blond. His face easily shows his confusion, then curiosity as he comes to a stand still right before the younger Nation, who's practically vibrating.

He doesn't say anything at first, only brings a hand up to feel the silky smoothness of a few strands. Then he gazes into America's waiting eyes, smiles, and says, "I like it."

America tackles him in a hug and they spend the car ride home talking and catching up.

* * *

Japan's reaction had been just about what he'd expected.

With so many male characters of Japan's having long hair, whether it be in anime or manga or other, America knew right away that of all the Nation's he knew would be extremely supportive of his decision, Japan's definitely high on the list, right around his brother, France, Russia, Hungary, and Italy. Actually, England had been the only one he'd counted on not liking his new hair, but with England's surprisingly easy approval, that pretty much left no one to have a reason not to like it, unless they just plain hated long hair on people.

The conference is as noisy and disorganized as always. Everyone he expects to say something does, as well as a few he'd thought wouldn't care to begin with, like Romano, who tends to hate everything everyone does without a seemingly justifiable reason. But when America had greeted him, gold hair around his shoulders again, Romano had only mumbled something and walked away with a blush.

Prussia has a field day. Between the comparisons to a girl—especially in the context of his and Russia's relationship—and the not-at-all-subtle attempts to cajole him into bed, Prussia teases and cat-calls him until Germany bodily throws him out of the conference room, but not without giving America one last wink. Next to him, Russia brakes the mechanical pencil in his hands.

Italy and Hungary and a few others compliment him, as does Belarus, surprisingly. It's during the half-way break when she stands next to him to pour herself a glass of water and says, "At least you can do something right." Their relationship is completely based on the fact that he's dating the person she loves most in the world, and that puts a damper on things, but when he looks at her face in question, she too, like most of the others who talk directly to him, has a light blush high on her cheeks. But instead of being a total asshole about all the attention and no doubt, downright _filthy_ thoughts half these Nations are having about him, he just smiles and nods and keeps his mouth shut. She's always liked him best when he doesn't speak anyway.

And as the conference starts up again, he feels honored and so, _so_ happy to be surrounded by so many brilliant people he has the privilege to call his friends.

* * *

**So t****his little one-shot is inspired entirely around the ****personal belief that Edward, from Fullmetal Alchemist, has amazing fucking hair and seriously bless the creators for giving him both long gold hair **_**and**_** gold eyes****. And I'm sure America with long hair is pretty widely accepted as 'YES' to everyone.**

**Not much plot but I've always like the idea of America with long hair, so *shrug.* That's all for now, I hope you enjoyed it!**


End file.
